To Love In Beauty and In Brokenness
by ephemereal
Summary: Roger receives devastating news that triggers a love triangle with the two people he loves most. COMPLETED
1. Tidal Wave

_*PLEASE READ* I received a review last night that brought to my attention the fact that a few of the lines/themes in this chapter were incredibly similar to em0xstatic's "The Actress." On reading the review, I went back and reread that story, and discovered that the two were very similar. I just want to say that I am very sorry for that, and that it was purely a coincidence. This is the first chapter the way I originally had it written before I lost my nerve and decided I didn't have the medical knowledge necessary to write it this way. I ask you to go back and read it again, so that you don't miss an important plot element that has been changed. Again, I'm sorry, I never intended to use lines that had already been written by someone else. Thank you for bringing it to my attention, and I ask that you keep reading so that you may determine whether or not your conjecture is correct._

Author's Note: Okay, first of all none of these characters belong to me. They all belong to the late Jonathan Larson. They are just choosing to live inside my head right now and give me no choice but to find a way to occupy them. *MAJOR* angst warning for this story. . .as in . . I made myself cry. For an hour. I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to continue it, but I have an idea in my head and it's sort of something that I need to do. On that note I will say that I love reviews, but please be nice. Oh, and this whole story will be written from Mimi's perspective. I'm actually gonna stick to it this time. . .I hope. . .I'll let you know if I change. Okay, enough of my rambling, grab some tissues and read!

Chapter 1: Tidal Wave

~~~**~~~

It's dark outside when I hear the door slam, signaling Roger's return. I sit up and glance at the clock, wondering how long I've been asleep and wishing that I could work normal hours and be awake during the day along with the rest of humankind. 

Past eight. Roger was supposed to be home by five. It was supposed to be a routine doctor's appointment. My heart is hammering in my chest as I quickly throw on an old fuzzy sweatshirt and go out to investigate what's wrong. I'm tempted just to go back to bed and pretend I don't know there's anything wrong. But I can't do that. I'm tough. I'm not afraid of dying. At least, that's what Roger thinks. I'm not about to let him know it's a lie. At least, not right now.

"Rog-"

The sight of him stops me in my tracks. He's standing slumped against the kitchen counter, staring out the window. There's a glass of water in his hand and three new pill bottles on the counter.

"Roger?" I whisper, walking up behind him.

He doesn't respond, but I can see his shoulders shaking slightly.

"Roger."

"Go away." He says it so softly I almost wonder if I've really heard of just imagined it.

"Roger, babe, what is it? What did the doctor say?"

"I said leave me alone," he says, louder this time. He still won't face me. 

"Tell me what's wrong." I insist, laying a hand on his shoulder. 

"NO!" Roger explodes, rounding on and grabbing my arm so hard it hurts. I stumble backwards and pull away from him, surveying the damage.

"Roger, what the hell is wrong with you?" I choke, silently cursing the tears that are stinging my eyes.

"Just go!" He's screaming now. It's all I can do not to turn and run away. "Go! Leave. Now. Get out of my sight and never come back."

"Roger!" I protest, "What did I do to deserve this?"

"Nothing!" he yells, tears streaming down his face. "Nothing."

"Babe, what's wrong?"

I walk over to him again and wrap my arms around his neck. He nearly collapses into my arms, sobbing into my shoulder. My mind is reeling with questions, but I think I already know the answer. I almost don't want him to tell me, because then it will be real. 

Silently, I wrap an arm around his waist and help him over to the couch. He lies sprawled across my lap, still crying softly. I rest my cheek on the top of his head and run my fingers through the damp hair at the nape of his neck.

"I love you, Roger."

"Don't," he groans, as though it hurts him just to hear me say it. "Just don't."

"What did the doctor say, Roger? Please tell me."

Roger sighs, his breath on my leg making me shiver. 

"It's over, Mimi," he says in a soft, broken voice. "Kaposi's sarcoma. The death sentence."

I feel my throat close up and I force myself to swallow hard. It hurts. My head is spinning and my entire body hurts. 

"How long?" I hear myself ask.

"The doctor said. . .maybe. . .maybe three months. If the treatment is successful."

I force myself not to flinch, to simply nod.

_It's a fact, take it as a fact. Then that's all it has to be. It doesn't have to be real, not yet. _

I can't handle it if it's real.

"What are your options?"

"Chemo. And some form of new experimental gene therapy."

"So then-then there's a chance you could get better?"

Roger sits up and shakes his head.

"I've already decided I'm not going."

The words hit me like a bullet to the heart.

"You mean—refuse treatment?"

He just nods again.

"Roger, you can't do that! Are you insane? Just because you're sick doesn't mean you have to give it all up! There's still hope as long as you're fighting, but if you stop? Then it's only a matter of time."

"Mimi, listen to yourself," Roger says gently, "You're hanging onto a thread of a dream. Miracles like that don't happen. They just don't. So it's easier if you don't expect them to. I'd rather die peacefully then go down fighting. You know the treatment'll just make me feel like shit. What's the use prolonging the inevitable if I don't even get to enjoy my time left?"

He pulls me into his lap, gently kissing my forehead. I lean up and capture his lips with mine, tasting the salt of his tears in the kiss.

"Does Mark know?" I ask after a moment.

Roger nods.

"He was with me," he laughs bitterly, "He was with me when I was first diagnosed, too. Remind me not to take Mark to the hospital with me anymore. It might kill me."

I close my eyes, picturing Mark through all of it. He would be the way he always was. Quiet and collected and utterly detached. What I wouldn't give right now to be like Mark. 

"Where is he?"

"What?" Roger asks, as though I've brought him back from some far away place.

"Where's Mark?"

"Out filming. Said he had a project he wanted to finish. Strange how he only finds inspiration when he's upset."

I nod, and lay my head on Roger's shoulder. I'd never thought of that before. Mark and Roger both have an escape. I have yet to find my so-called inner talent. I can't sing or play or capture truth through images. The only thing I've ever been known for is being the best lay in town. 

I slide off Roger's lap and stand up.

"It's late." I say, stating the obvious. 

Roger nods and stands up too, stretching cautiously, as though afraid his body will betray him. I swallow again and turn away. 

"I'm gonna go lie down."

"Okay," Roger says from behind me, "Let me take a shower and then I'll join you."

I wait until I hear the water start, then get out the photo album Mark gave us last Christmas. Everyone looks so happy in all the pictures. They're like a snap shot of time. A time that's gone now. My eyes sting with tears. I swipe at them roughly, then put the photo album back on the dresser and lie down on my back in the bed.

I dig my fingernails into the palms of my hands until I can feel blood. I squeeze my eyes shut against the pain.

_Dontcrydontcrydontcry__. . ._

I feel weak, like my body is tearing itself up from inside. Nothing will ever be the same again. I take a deep breath, desperate to stay in control. I'm floating on a tidal wave of emotions. If I give in, I'll be torn to bits and drown.

~~~**~~~

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	2. Truth or Beauty

Chapter 2: Truth or Beauty

~~~**~~~

The sun looks pink as it rises over the city. Well, not the sun, really, but the sky. There's a gently gray cloud cover this morning. The sky looks as soft as velvet, shot through with pink and yellow. It's deceptive, really.  It looks as though you could just step outside and take a deep breath and smell the scent of honeysuckle or lilacs, or some other poetic floral name. Really all you'd get is a mouthful of toxic fumes. Like life, I muse, wondering how my brain can possibly be functioning after a night of no sleep.

"Good morning."

The sound of Mark's voice makes me jump, and for some reason I'm reluctant to turn and face him.

"Hay," I mutter finally.

"Where's Roger?" he asks, bringing my mind back to the inevitable. I know there's no way for me to escape. I'm only kidding myself trying.

"Still in bed," I answer glumly.

Mark shrugs and attempts a reassuring smile. It doesn't succeed.

"It's early."

I shake my head.

"Doesn't matter. He won't get up."

Mark sighs.

"Now that's a depressing outlook. Did he say that, or are you just assuming?"

"I'm just assuming," I admit, "He's depressed. All I know is how he's acted in the past when he's been depressed."

"Then trust me when I say I have more experience there than you."

I can't argue with that. I just nod.

"I don't envy you there."

Mark cocks his head to the side and regards me quizzically for a moment. Then he turns away, picks up his camera, and aims it toward the very same sunrise that had my attention just moments ago.

"Pan across a beautiful sunrise and a beautiful morning," he narrates quietly, "Is truth beauty, or is beauty truth? And if beauty is truth and beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then is truth in the eye of the beholder?"

Mark switches off his camera and turns back to me.

"And that is why I am not a philosopher. But sometimes I make myself wonder."

"Wonder how?" I ask, suddenly curious.

"Well, people always talk about to photographs show the truth that we can't otherwise see in life. But what if what they really show is the truth that we create? The truth we *want* to see? A truth that we make for ourselves out of a carefully edited reality? In that case, is it really truth, or just our own, personalized lie?" He trails off as though losing his nerve suddenly. "I'm sorry. That probably didn't make any sense."

I think about the photo album and last night, and glance down at my hands to make absolutely certain I didn't dream the whole thing. Sure enough, each of my palms is marked by four tiny red half moons. 

"No," I murmur, "No, it makes perfect sense."

"Really?" Mark asks, looking hopeful.

I smile at him.

"Yeah. Yeah, it does."

He smiles back, and I hold his gaze for a long time. It makes me feel calmer somehow.

"Mimi?" Roger's voice, calling from the bedroom, shatters the moment.

"See?" Mark says, looking at the ground, "I told you he'd snap out of it."

"That remains to be seen," I mutter, more harshly than I'd meant to, then I turn and make my way to the bedroom to find out.

To my surprise, Roger is up and dressed in a pair of old jeans and a faded black t-shirt. His leather jacket is folded over his arm.

"Where are you going?" I ask.

Roger looks slightly taken aback. I recognize that look. It's the look that says he was expecting me to read his mind, and now that I've actually asked him a question, he's not sure how to put the answer into words.

"Umm . . .for a walk in the park." He answers softly, "Come with me?"

I don't understand him, but I can't refuse.

"Sure."

He nods determinedly, then takes my hand and leads me toward the door. I'm surprised by how warm his hand feels around mine, and at the same time alarmed by the fact that I'd expected it to be cold. I shiver slightly at the thought and mentally kick myself. If I'm not careful, I'm going to waste the last precious few months I have with Roger. I know that I'm in danger of spending the whole time waiting to lose him, rather than enjoying the time we have left. I shake my head at myself as I suddenly realize we're out on the street and I haven't even noticed. I must be spending too much time with Mark. He's starting to rub off on me.

"Penny for you thoughts," Roger waves a hand in front of my face, bringing me back.

"I was. . .oh, nevermind."

Roger gives me and odd look, but then he wraps an arm around my waist and we continue walking. We reach the park in no time; after all if is just across the street. I smile to myself as I remember Roger joking about the 'wonderful view' from the loft on he night we met.

"Okay, no you have to tell me," Roger insists, stopping suddenly and grabbing me by the shoulders. "What were you smiling about?"

"I was thinking about the night we met."

An odd look comes across his face, as though he's not sure whether to laugh or cry.

"Yeah," he says softly, "Yeah, I was thinking about that too. Last night."

"What made you think about it?" I ask, standing in front of him and wrapping my arms around his waist. I lay my head against his chest, listening to the sound of his heart beating.

"I was just thinking that. . .you won't leave me alone."

I start to protest, but he holds up a hand for silence.

"Wait. Let me finish. I guess I've always felt that. . .anyone I've ever cared about has deserted me in some way. After April—" his voice cracks on her name, and he stops for a moment before regaining enough composure to continue. "I just wanted to crawl in a hole and stay there for the rest of my life. And then you barged into my apartment and into my life and you forced me to let you into my heart. And even when I left you, you found me again. And then last night. . .I did everything I could to push you away again, and you still wouldn't let me. Now-now I'm going to leave you and there's not one damn thing I can do about it."

I lean up and kiss him. It's all I can do. There are no words to describe the way I'm feeling.

"I know I'm hurting you. . .and that it's only going to get worse. I guess I feel worst about that. If there was anything I could do. . ." he shrugs, "God, I hate feeling so helpless."

"I know, babe, I know," I whisper, gently rubbing his back. And there it is again, that feeling of being torn to bits. And I know suddenly that that's what it is. It's helplessness.

"Roger," I say slowly, "What made you decide to do this? To walk in the park?"

Roger smiles slightly at that. 

"I was just thinking this morning that I don't know how many more days I'll be able to go out. And so I figured I might as well take advantage of this one. No day but today." He looks me in the eye, "It's your mantra. Don't tell me you've forgotten it."

And suddenly I know. That's what's been missing these last few months. I haven't forgotten the words, but I've somehow lost their meaning.

~~~**~~~


	3. Independence Day

Chapter 3: Independence Day

~~~**~~~

"Roger?" I call, "Roger, Maureen just called, they're going to be here in just a few minutes."

There's no answer. I glance over at Mark in the kitchen, but he's completely engrossed in lining up strawberries in the icing of the flag cake Joanne dropped off on her way to the office this morning. Leave it to Joanne to insist on working on the fourth of July.

"Roger!" I call again, louder this time.

Everything feels. . .off, somehow. On every other holiday that I can remember spending here, Roger's been in the kitchen annoying the hell out of Mark from the crack of dawn until the rest of the gang arrives. This morning he's been hiding in his room, working at some unknown task.

Over the last few days, life has resumed a sort of normality. It's not right, though. It has the feeling of a calm before the storm. There's something ominous about it. Or maybe it's just my mind playing tricks on me again. That's probably it. Mark certainly doesn't seem affected.

I find Roger sitting on the floor in his bedroom, his back against the bed and his head in his hands. I can't tell if he's crying. I take a deep breath and force myself not to sigh. It's only been a few days, and already I'm tired of it. I'm tired of being upset all the time, and yet I feel disloyal when I'm happy.

"What happened?" I ask, for what feels like the millionth time this week.

He raises his head slightly at the sound of my voice. His eyes look dull in the late afternoon light.

"I just told my mom," he says softly. "She-she told me I got what I deserved. God, Mimi, how can she say that? She's my *mother* Mothers are supposed to love and comfort, not make you feel worse."

I nod silently, then grab his hands and attempt to pull him to his feet.

"They're gonna be here any minute, Rog, can we talk about this later?" I know he wants sympathy, but somehow I just don't have the strength right now. All I want to do is crawl into bed and sleep for about a million years. But there's not time, never time. And always the nightmares.

"No," Roger mutters, "No, we can't talk about this later. And I'm not going out there."

"Roger, be reasonable, you know they all care about you."

"Exactly," he says, "They care. I don't want them to. I don't want anyone to care. I'm sick of people caring. Hell, *I* don't even care anymore."

"Roger, I know that's not true. Please come out and see everyone. They love you. I love you."

"No you don't!" he shouts, suddenly on his feet. "You don't! You only say that because you feel guilty! I've seen the way you look at me lately, you're thinking this was all a mistake!"

Vaguely, I hear the door opening and closing, and voices out in the living room.

"You're wishing you'd never met me!" Roger continues, "Because then you wouldn't have to worry about pretending you still love me when you know I'm dying. You're wishing you could just move on, find somebody new to screw around with! Get in as many as you can before *you* die!"

I can't take it anymore. It this is what the last few months are going to be like, maybe I *do* wish I could move on.

"Fine," I say softly, "Fine, think what you'd like."

Roger brushes roughly past me and is out the door before I can say anything more.

It's deathly still. Everyone must have left when I wasn't listening.

Slowly, I lie down on the bed and start to cry. Once the tears start, I'm completely helpless against them. I'm falling and there's nothing to grab hold of. I can't breathe. My chest hurts, and I feel light headed. I'm going to drown in my own tears.

"Hey, you okay?" 

I lift my head slowly and see Mark, holding a box of tissues and looking very awkward.

"Where is everyone?" I ask, wondering how long it's been.

"Oh. . .um. . .they decided they were going to go to the Life this year instead."

I nod. In other words, they arrived, heard Roger and me yelling, and decided to take pity on us.

"Are you going to actually give me those, or did you just bring them here to tease me?" I ask, gesturing to the box of tissues. 

Mark blushes.

"Oh. Here."

He hands me the box.

"I'm never sure what to do when women cry," he admits.

I offer him a weak smile.

"Take their side," I suggest, "Tell them the way they've just been treated is absolutely horrible. Tell them whoever made them cry was acting like a complete asshole."

Mark grins at me.

"Okay. The way you've just been treated is absolutely horrible." He parrots, completely deadpan, "Roger was acting like a complete asshole."

"I'm going to tell him you said that," I tease.

"Hey!" Mark protests, "No fair! You tricked me."

"Rule number two, Mark. Never trust a woman. We're a lying, scheming breed."

Mark laughs.

"I'll have to remember that." Then he turns somber again, "Seriously though, are you okay? What happened?"

"What happened. . .Roger just. . .blew up. Completely out of control. Said that I don't really love him anymore now that he's dying. That I want to move on. Am I okay. . .I don't know, Mark. I don't know anything anymore."

"Wow. . . " Mark looks completely blown away, "Well, I can see why you're upset. Roger. . .has trouble facing his own emotions. He's afraid to simply admit that he's upset, and so he has to blame it on someone else. He used to do the same thing to April. And to me."

"I know. . .but. . .Where did this come from? I mean . . .we were so happy. I thought we'd finally worked out all our problems and now. . .now this."

He shrugs.

"I guess. . .I guess that's life."

"Do you think he'll come back this time?" I ask, trying and failing to keep my voice from shaking. 

"Yeah," Mark answers confidently, "Just give him some time to cool off. He'll be back here before you know it, with his tail between his legs, begging you to take him back."

I have to laugh at the image of Roger as a dog.

"Mark?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. . .for. . .understanding."

He blushes again.

"No problem."

Mark holds out his arms to me like a little kid wanting to be picked up. I lean forward and hug him gently. He smells like a mixture of aftershave and soap, and for some reason it makes my heart speed up. I pull away from him and mentally shake myself. This is *Mark*. He turns to leave, but turns back for a moment.

"Mimi?"

"What?"

"It hurts me too."

~~~**~~~

Review please!


	4. The Dead of Night

Chapter 4: The Dead of Night

~~~**~~~

"Mimi?" 

There's a pair of hands shaking me. I push them away, roll over, and put my hands over my head. The last thing I want to do right now is get up. 

"Mimi, get up!"

I open my eyes to see Mark standing over the bed shaking me, wearing a pair of red flannel pajamas. During the second week of July. I mentally shake my head at him. Not only is he practically an albino, he's cold-blooded as well.

"What?" I snap. The last thing I needed was to be awakened at two in the morning by a man wearing fuzzy slippers.

"Get up, there's someone at the door."

Instantly, I'm wide awake.

"Roger?" I ask breathlessly.

"Do you know anyone else who would be knocking on our door at this hour?"

I roll over and out of bed, nearly falling over as I stand up. Since when did life get to be so hard? Mark grabs me by the shoulders and I cling to his arm until the dizziness fades. 

I can hear coughing as I approach the door, and I know that it's Roger. Strange to know someone well enough to recognize them by the sound of their cough.

I wrestle the heavy door open to find Roger standing on our doorstep, looking like death warmed over. It's pouring rain out and his clothes are plastered to his body. His eyes are dull and ringed by sickly black smudges. He's pale as a ghost.

"Can-can I come in?" he asks weakly, gasping for breath.

"Hell yeah," I answer, surprised he's even asking. He does live here, after all.

He's unsteady on his feet as he walks in, and I take him by the arm and lead him over to the couch. Mark closes the door behind us, then dashes to the bathroom to get towels.

"God, Roger, where have you been?" I ask, as he practically collapses onto the couch.

"Around," he whispers roughly, "It's cold."

It's then that I notice he's shivering. Violently. Uncontrollably. I reach out and brush the back of my hand against his forehead.

"Holy shit, Roger. You're burning up."

Mark, standing a few feet away with a stack of towels in his arms, gives me an alarmed look.

"Here, take this," he instructs, handing Roger a towel, "Try to dry ff some. I'll call Maureen and get her to drive over here."

Roger starts to protest, but then dissolves into another coughing fit, worse this time.

"Tell her to hurry," I beg Mark. He nods and heads for the phone.

I sit down next to Roger and gently rub his back as he continues to cough. He grabs my hand, holding on so tightly it hurts. I squeeze back, then gently wrap my free arm around his waist, pulling him closer.

"Shhh. . .babe, it's gonna be okay. Maureen's coming. We'll get you to the hospital in no time."

Roger stiffens in my arms at my mention of the hospital.

"No!" he gasps, desperately.

"Roger, baby, what's wrong?" I ask, confused. "You need a doctor."

Finally, the coughing subsides a little and he pulls me down against his chest, still shivering. I can feel the heat of his fevered skin eve through the thing, wet t-shirt he's wearing.

"I don't want to die," he whispers against my neck.

"Roger. . ." I trail off, groping for a reply. "They can help you. They can at least make you comfortable."

"No . . ." he insists, his voice a low, agonized moan, "No, they can't. No one can help me anymore. You take me there, all they'll do is remind me I don't have much time left. They'll put a timer on my life, so I can know exactly when it will be over. I don't want to know. I don't want—" he starts to cough again and I can feel his chest heaving beneath my head.

"She's here," Mark announces finally.

Roger's so weak by now it takes both of us to get him downstairs and into Maureen's car. Mark sits up front in the passenger seat, arguing with her about her driving and the fastest route to the hospital. I climb in the back with Roger. He lies down, with his head in my lap, fading in and out of consciousness. I fell numb, detached. Like I'm watching this whole scene pay out, but I'm not really part of it.

The emergency room is packed when we arrive, but Roger is admitted immediately after Mark describes his recent diagnosis. We're told by a nurse with oily hair and bad skin that we'll have to wait out in the waiting room since we're not immediate family.

Maureen, by now completely fed up with Mark, goes off in search of coffee. I curl up on a couch, and Mark sits down beside me, glaring daggers at a black spot on the floor.

"What?" I ask him after a few minutes of silence.

"Nothing," he mutters, then sighs and shifts position to stare at a spot on the wall instead.

"Doesn't sound like nothing to me," I nag. I'm not sure why I'm so eager to know what's wrong with Mark right now, but I'm desperate for anything to keep my mind off Roger.

"I don't want to talk right now, " he insists, "Leave me alone."

"You know, if I didn't know better, Marky, I'd think you were sulking."

He turns and looks at me sharply with piercing blue eyes. Strange, I'd never noticed what color his eyes are before.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks in a voice I've never herd before. He sounds hurt, angry. Like he's trying not to cry.

"Well, I mean. . .you don't sulk, so . . ."

"Not like you would know." He mutters, turning his back on me.

Suddenly, I want to slap him.

"Oh no, because I don't know you at all. I only *live* with you, but I wouldn't know at all."

"Do you live with me?" he asks sarcastically. "You're always so busy screwing around with Roger, sometimes I wonder if you two even remember that I *exist* Oh, except when something goes wrong. The you have all the time in the world for me, because you need my help."

"That's not true and you know it!" I shout, causing several people to turn around and stare at us, probably thanking God that *they* have enough sense not to cause a scene. People these days. What *is* our world coming to? I almost laugh, picturing them shaking their heads.

"Oh, no?" Mark replies, snapping me back to the present, "When was the last time you bothered to ask me if *I* was okay?"

I stop short at that, realizing that I don't know.

Mark stands up, nodding.

"I thought so."

"But you're-you're always so-I don't know, it's hard to be concerned about someone who's always as collected as you are."

Mark laughs bitterly.

"Oh, that's nice. So, what then? Just because I don't have a neurotic breakdown every two seconds like you and Roger, I don't exist? Let me break something to ya, hon. I have feelings too."

"Mark, what' wrong with you tonight?" I insist, completely blown away by this outburst of emotion.

"What's wrong?" he scoffs, "Could it be that my best friend is dying? That I can't even talk to Maureen for ten seconds without reverting to scream? Would is be that I have no job and no life? No, that's not possible, because good old Marky doesn't *have* feelings."

He turns and starts to walk away, then turns back.

"Maybe. . ." he says softly, "Maybe I'm just jealous."

"Jealous?" I ask, confused, "Of what?"

Mark comes back over and sits down beside me.

"Of-Roger. He doesn't realize how lucky he is. . .to have you." He glances awkwardly down at the floor for a moment, then meets my faze with those bright blue eyes. "You know it kills me to see him treat you the way he does."

"Mark. . ." I'm at a complete loss for words.

He shrugs helplessly and smiles sadly at me.

I pull him into a tight hug and gently kiss his forehead. He shudders slightly in my arms, then tightens his grasp around me. I close my eyes and give in to sleep, wishing I could freeze time and stay in this moment forever.

~~~**~~~

Review please!


	5. It'll Be Okay

Author's Note: First of all, muffins and strawberry. . .things (lol Mo) to anyone who knows which McDonald's Mimi's working at. Second of all, anyone who hasn't heard "Open Road" from 1994 NYTW RENT needs to go download it and listen to it. It's sooo pretty (although I don't particularly like Tony Hoylen's voice, but that's beside the point). I listened to it and cried for an hour and a half while I wrote this last night. All right, enough babbling from me. Enjoy.

Chapter 5: It'll Be Okay

~~~**~~~

"What's cooking?" I ask, dumping my keys on the counter and inhaling deeply.

"Dinner," Mark answers proudly, "How do you like your eggs?"

"Over easy," I answer, flipping through the stack of mail I picked up on my way in before dumping the whole thing in the trash. What a waste of paper.

"Wow, I'm impressed."

"What?"

"You can even make eggs sound sexy. How'd the job hunting go?"

I smile wearily at him. I know he's only trying to cheer me up, but it's been a long, exhausting day and bad jokes weren't exactly what I was hoping to come home to.

"Good. I got hired at a McDonald's in the city. The pay's not too great, but it was the best I could do and well. . .under the circumstances. . ."

Mark nods. Roger's been in the hospital for six days now, and even if he does recover enough to be released, he'll need intensive around the clock care. Either way, we're in desperate need of an extra income. Even if it will mean working two jobs.

"You sure you'll be able to manage the extra hours?" Mark asks, as though reading my mind.

I sigh.

"Do I have a choice?"

He look so sad and helpless, I have to say something to make him feel better.

"Besides, I'm only a cashier. How exhausting can counting money be? And the McDonald's is right across the street from some theater, so I'll have plenty of interesting people to watch if I get bored."

Mark grins hopefully.

"I guess you're right. I went to see Roger today."

"You didn't tell him where I was, did you?" The last thing Roger needs is to be feeling guilty on my account.

Mark shakes his head and I breathe a silent sigh of relief.

"No. I told him you were helping Collins clean his apartment. HE told me to tell you he loves you. And he wants to see you soon."

I stare at the wall, silently. As awful as it makes me feel, it's almost been a relief being away from Roger the last few days. This way it's easier to hide from reality. I don't have the constant reminder.

"Here," Mark says softly, setting a plate of steaming eggs in front of me.

"Thanks," I murmur, trying to get my stomach to stop churning long enough to think about eating.

"What's wrong?" Mark asks softly, coming up behind me and laying his hands on my shoulders.

"Nothing. I'm just tired."

"Liar." He mutters, rubbing my shoulders gently, "Tell me."

"I-I don't think I can do it, Mark."

"What? Do what?"

"I don't think I'll be able to go on when Roger—" My throat closes up, the tears taking me by surprise. I pull away from Mark and walk across the room to stare out the window. 

The sun is starting to set, casting a golden glow over the city. It makes me think about Roger, and last Halloween. I close my eyes, letting the memory engulf me.

_"Why? Why does this have to happen to people?" I ask Roger, quietly hanging up the phone._

_"What? What happened?" he asks gently._

_"Angel. She's-she's sick, Rog. Really sick. Why do things like this have to happen to good people?"_

_Roger shakes his head and wraps his arms around me._

_"I don't know, baby. I don't know. I guess it's like. . .time. A day dawns so beautiful and promising. Anything can happen. But no matter what happens, good or bad, it always has to end. Everything has to end sometime. Even the bad times have to pass."_

I struggle to breathe against the pain in my chest. We'd broken up the next day. It'd taken nearly six months for us to fix things. So stupid. So much time wasted. Things have been so different since last Christmas. For the first time in my life I've felt like I actually had something to live for. Someone to come home to at night. But now. . .

I start to cry again, wondering since when I've gotten so weak. I'm twenty-two and my life is over. 

"Mimi?" Mark looks so scared it just makes me cry harder.

"I can't do it, Mark. I can't. I'll go back to the way I was before. I don't want that to happen. Please don't let that happen."

Mark comes over and wraps an arm around my shoulders.

"Mimi. . .you've changed so much since then. I don't think you could go backwards if you tried."

"But. . .I have nothing now. No talent, no career. . .no dreams. I'm a whore, Mark. That's all I ever was and all I'll ever be."

Mark looks shocked.

"Mimi. . .where did this come from? I thought you were happy with Roger."

That only makes me feel worse.

"I was! But now. . .how do you love someone when you know you're only going to lose them? It hurts too much."

"You're bound to lose anyone you love eventually. No one lives forever. I would think you of all people should know that. Everyone dies every minute of every day. It's hardly like it takes place all at once, in an instant."

"Don't say that!" I protest, "It's too depressing!"

Mark laughs sadly.

"All right then, I won't. What would you like me to do instead?"

"Hold me," I beg, surprising myself. "Tell me it'll be okay. I need someone to tell me it'll be okay."

Mark wraps his arms around me, resting his chin on the top of my head and running his hands up and down my back. I bury my face in his shoulder.

"Shh. . .it'll be okay. It *will* be." He sounds so sure, I almost believe him. "For you and for me. . .for all of us, it *will* be. Life will go on. You'll see. Someday. . .it won't hurt anymore."

"What about Roger?" I ask shakily.

"He'll be fine too. Angel's out there somewhere, making sure he will be. I know it."

The weight in my chest starts to lighten, just a little. I can begin to see a hint of the future through the swirling gray fog that's come down over my mind during the last month.

"Thanks."

"Yeah," Mark says softly, "Yeah."

I lean up to kiss his cheek, but then change my mind at the last second and lightly brush his lips. He stares at me for a moment in shock, then kisses me back. Hard. Desperately. I know I should feel guilty, but somehow it feels too. . .right. I need this. I let myself enjoy it for a few seconds before pulling away.

"Mark. . .we can't."

He nods, blushing.

"I'm sorry," he mutters.

"I'm not."

I glance at the clock. I have to be at the club in fifteen minutes. I sigh.

"I have to go."

Mark nods.

"See you later."

I walk out into the night, my head swirling with a million different thoughts.

~~~**~~~

Review? Please?


	6. Movie Night and a Box of Chocolates

Chapter 6: Movie Night and a Box of Chocolates

~~~**~~~

"I brought you this," I offer, handing Roger his guitar case.

He takes if from me and silently sets it on the side of the bed, then motions for me to sit down. I slip off my shoes and sit down beside him. I lean up and kiss him, but he pulls away after just a few seconds.

"How are you?" he asks softly.

"Me?" I ask, surprised.

"No, your father," he teases, "Yeah, you."

"I'm-" I start to say I'm fine, but choke on the words and somehow can't bring myself to say it. "I'm. . .here?" I offer finally. Roger nods his understanding.

"But that should be my line," I add.

"What?"

"'How are you?' It should be my line to ask you."

"Oh. Well . . .I'm. . ." he shrugs helplessly. "What can I say, I feel like shit."

"I'm sorry," I mutter into his neck.

"For what? It's not your fault."

"I know. But I'm still sorry. I'm allowed to be sorry, aren't I? I mean it's the least I can do."

I meant it to lighten the mood, but Roger just looks saddened by it.

"If you could turn back time. . ." he says softly, "What would you do differently?"

The question takes me by surprise, and I'm not sure how to answer it.

"I. . .don't know. So many things. I mean . . .I never meant to hurt anybody but. . .look where I ended up. I guess if I could change anything. . .I would make sure I never wasted any time. I mean, even if I wasn't-even if I hadn't-" I struggle for how to say it, groping for words, "Life will always be too short to waste time on pointless arguments. Why? What would you change?"

Roger shakes his head.

"I don't know either. I've just been thinking about it a lot lately you know, with-everything."

"Yeah?"

"And I realized that I don't know. There's so much in my past that I regret and yet at the same time. . .I've gotten something good out of just about all of it. If I hadn't ended up where I did, if I hadn't left home, I would never have met you." He sighs and lets his eyes fall closed for a moment. He looks so completely vulnerable it makes me hurt inside to look at him.

"You tired?" I ask.

"Yeah."

"I'll let you sleep."

I start to get up, but he stops me with a hand on my arm.

"Wait."

"What?"

"I'm sorry. For everything I said the other day."

"It's okay. Really. Don't worry about it."

"I know. But I'm allowed to be sorry, aren't I? I mean, it's the least I can do."

I smile.

"No, Roger, you're not allowed to be sorry, only I am."

He laughs weakly.

"Okay. I'll remember that."

"I love you," I whisper, kissing him one last time.

"Love you too," he answers drowsily, already half asleep. "Come back soon."

"I will," I promise.

~~~**~~~

Mark greets me at the door when I reach the loft, with a video cassette in hand.

"What's that?" I ask curiously.

"I've decided that we both need a distraction from life," he says cheerfully, waving the tape around wildly. "It's movie night."

"Great," I mutter sarcastically, "Just what I wanted, to spend my one night off this week burning brain cells in front of the boob tube."

"Oh, come on," Mark protests, "Don't make me force you."

"Oooh, a threat," I scoff, "And just how do you plan to carry it out?"

"You really want to know?" he asks, setting the video on the counter.

"Yeah, sure, it's probably more entertaining than the movie itself. 

"Hey now!" Mark teases. Then before I know it, he's whisked me off my feet and into his arms. "Like this!" he shouts triumphantly, laughing at me as I struggle.

"I'm gonna drop you if you keep that up."

"Okay, okay. . ." I whine, "I'll watch your movie, just put me down now."

"I guess so. If you promise you're not gonna back out."

"I'm *not*."

"All right then."

Mark walks over to the couch and drops me unceremoniously onto the old olive-green cushions.

"You hungry?" Mark asks.

"No. Just tired. What movie am I being forced to watch?"

" _The__ Princess Bride," _Mark answers proudly, inserting the tape into the ancient VCR Benny left behind when he moved out. "It's a classic."

"Hell yeah, it is," I agree, surprised, "I used to watch that movie all the time. "See?" Mark laughs, "All that arguing for nothing. I'm hurt by your lack of confidence in my movie selection skills."

"Well, I've never met a *guy* who likes _The Princess Bride."_

"Oh, so what are you saying now? That I'm a woman?"

"That's not what I meant and you know it."

"Are you sure you're not hungry?" Mark tempts, coming over to stand in front of me.

"Yes!" I insist, "Will you move? You're blocking the TV."

He crosses his arms and refuses to budge.

"So, even if I eat something, you won't?"

"No." I mutter, suddenly feeling stubborn.

Mark walks over to the closet, pulls something out, and comes over to sit next to me.

"What is that?" I ask curiously, attempting to look over Mark's shoulder. He moves so that my view is completely blocked.

"What *is* that?" I nag.

"You said you didn't want any."

I stand up on the sofa and lean over Mark.

"Chocolate! Where'd you get that?"

"I have my sources."

"Give me that!" I attempt to grab the box.

"You said you wouldn't eat anything! I'm not gonna let good chocolate go to waste."

"Mark!" I insist.

"What, Princess Buttercup?"

"Give me a chocolate!"

"As you wish," he whispers, handing me the box. My heart beats faster, and suddenly I don't want the chocolate anymore. I set the box on the table in front of us and turn back to look at Mark.

He locks his gaze with mine and just stares for a moment before leaning in to kiss me. I pull away from him after a few seconds. 

"What?" he asks, looking scared all of a sudden. Somehow it only makes me want him more.

"Are you sure about this?" I ask.

"Hell yes," he answers, "Are you?"

I nod and kiss him again, harder this time. Mark moans softly and wraps his arms around me. My hands shake as I start to unbutton his shirt.

I feel like I'm being drawn in. My mind is completely numb. I can't stop. Everything in my life is going to pieces around me. I cling to Mark for all I'm worth. He's my life raft in the sea of grief.

~~~**~~~


	7. In a Moment

Chapter 7: In a Moment

~~~**~~~

The sunlight streaming in the window feels warm on my face. I roll over without opening my eyes. I don't want to shatter this moment. I feel good. Better than I've felt in over a month. Almost. . .happy, like the faded memory of a good dream, forgotten as consciousness returns. Finally, the feeling begins to fade, and I open my eyes gradually, wincing as the light sends a sharp pain through my forehead. Mark's standing over me, looking concerned. My heart skips a beat. Mark. Oh, God, Mark.

"Mimi," he says softly, his voice unnaturally strained.

His short blond hair is tousled, standing up in little cowlicks all over his head. He's wearing a pair of old sweat pants, and his shirt is on inside out.

I hurriedly wrap the sheets around myself, suddenly embarrassed.

"We need to talk," Mark says finally, looking at the floor.

"I know." I don't move.

"Ummm. . .I'll let you get dressed." Mark turns and flees the room.

I roll out of bed and stretch. My head is spinning and I feel nauseous. If at all possible, things just got a hell of a lot worse.

I open my closet and stare in without seeing any of the clothes. Finally, I settle on a baggy gray t-shirt and a pair of jeans. The last thing I feel like doing now is being sexy.

Mark's sitting at the kitchen table with one of his numerous screenplays in front of him, drinking coffee and gnawing on a pencil.

I slide into the chair opposite him, trying to think of something to say. Some way to explain.

"I'm sorry." I mutter finally. It's all I can come up with at the moment.

"Do you regret it?" Mark asks bluntly.

I nod helplessly. It's all I can do. Why do I do these things to myself? To the people I love? Sometimes I think I would be doing everyone a huge favor if I dug myself a nice, deep hole in the ground and just never came out again.

Mark looks hurt, angry. I don't blame him.

"Mark. . .look. . .um. . .you should probably get tested. I mean, I know we were safe but—well, there's always a chance that—"

Mark slams his fist down on the table, making me jump and sloshing black coffee all over the table. He takes a deep breath, then lets it out in a long, loud sigh.

"I guess I should've expected as much from you." His voice is cold as ice and the words slice through me, leaving me gasping for breath.

"Mark—I didn't—"

"Shut up!" he shouts, "Just shut up! I'm sick of hearing excuses for why people walk all over me. Let's face it. I'm like a good cleaning product. Easy to use and easy to discard. It's as simple as that."

"Mark, it's not like that!" I plead, "Please give me a chance!"

"You told me you *wanted* to! I believed you. I may be a fool, but it's not like you're without blame either."

He's on his feet now, towering over my chair, eyes wild.

"Is this what you did to Benny?" he asks, "Let me guess, you seduced him and then told Roger he gave you no choice, that you were too weak to resist!"

"Mark, shut the hell up!"

His hand flashes out in an instant to slap me, but I block him and he strikes a glancing blow off my arm. He freezes as though some kind of switch has been turned, and weakly stumbles into the living room, sinking down onto the couch.

"Don't tell Roger," I beg, trying not to cry, "Pleas, please don't tell Roger."

Mark shakes his head.

"No. I won't. Of course I won't tell Roger. This is the last thing he needs to worry about right now."

"Thank you," I manage weakly.

We stay there in silence for a few seconds, me standing, Mark sitting. It's so strange how time seems to change. Last night changed everything in a heartbeat and now I know it'll take months, years to be okay again. Maybe it never will be.

"Damn it, Mark, I'm so sorry. I know there's nothing I can say to you to make it better. Maybe I should just leave. Stay with Maureen until Roger—until I don't need to be here anymore. Then I can find a new place to live, start over somewhere else."

"Santa Fe?" Mark asks softly, "You gonna go the same way Roger did?"

Despite everything, I smile to myself remembering Roger's 'trip' to Santa Fe. How he'd told me later that he hadn't even made it over the state line before turning around and heading back.

"Sure," I agree, "If you want me to."

Mark looks far off, lost in thought.

"You want to tell me your side?" he asks softly, and suddenly I get the feeling that he regrets this as much as I do. After all, he's just betrayed his best friend's trust.

"I. . .don't really know how to explain it. I knew it was wrong, I just. . .couldn't help it. Everything's falling apart."

I close my eyes, trying to block out the memories of the last two months. Everyone haunting the loft for the first few days, offering their sympathy. Roger's stubborn refusal to accept it. It only took him a few days to drive everyone off. He won't even let them visit him in the hospital. Says he doesn't want them to see him sick.

I look back up at Mark. He's still staring expectantly at me. I sigh. I'm so sick of feeling helpless, and yet that's what my entire life has become. Helplessness. Dependency.

"Mark. . .all I can say is that no one's ever treated me the way you did. No one. It was like. . .a dream. Too good to be true, of course. You gave me what I needed. I couldn't help but take it."

Mark nods slowly, and I can see tears glistening in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," I repeat, hating to see him hurt like this, "It's not like I don't care about you, Mark. I just. . .can't. Not like that."

"I'm sorry too," Mark answers finally. "I knew it was wrong too. I never should have let you. . .I never should have let myself. Are you really going to leave?"

"I don't know. Probably. It's not like there's really anything left for me here. And I can't stay here. Not after everything."

Mark shakes his head.

"I never meant for this to happen. I should've know. . .should've thought. . ." he trails off, then gets up and comes over to face me. I cross my arms over my chest.

"I should've known too. All my life I should've know. I never meant for any of it to happen."

"Mimi. . .is there any way we can still be friends?"

"I don't know, Mark. But I'm willing to try."

I lean up and hug him, just for a second. He doesn't hug me back, but he relaxes slightly.

The awkward silence in the loft is interrupted by the phone ringing.

"I'll get it," Mark states, practically sprinting for it.

He listens for only a few seconds before muttering a hurried thank you and hanging up.

"Who was that?" I ask, my heart pounding.

"The hospital." He answers, "We'd better hurry. I don't think we have much time."

~~~**~~~

Review please!


	8. The End

Author's Note: One chapter to go after this. I just have to say that I am incredibly sorry for this chapter, and I cried the entire time I wrote it. So PLEASE DON'T HATE ME!

Chapter 8: The End

~~~**~~~

Mark's quiet on the cab ride over, and I can't speak past the lump in my throat, let alone find the word. Instead, I stare out the window. It feels wrong somehow that it's early morning. And a sunny morning at that. I always expected to get the call in the dead of night in darkness. There's something safe about the light. Not this morning.

As the cab passes through block after block of the city, my eyes take in the sights as if for the first time. People sleeping on the streets, their only possessions held in torn up garbage bags. Young girls, walking down the street, make up and artificial smiles plastered on their faces, silent witnesses to the cruelty of life. As I watch, I feel a sort of vital connection with all of them. I've never met any of them, and yet I can tell by the scared, lost look in their eyes that they have something in common with me. The helplessness. Maybe all humans do.

"Mimi." Mark shakes me gently, and I suddenly realize that we're stopped in front of the hospital. It looms in front of me like some kind of huge, dark beast, and my blood runs cold. I shut the door of the cab behind me and resist the urge to scream as it drives off. My only route of escape. Now I'll have to face what lies inside.

Mark attempts to take my arm, but I push his hand away. If I'm going to do this, I need to do it myself. I make it all the way to the door of Roger's room before I lose it. My entire body just freezes.

"Mimi? You okay? What's wrong?"

"I can't," I whisper, "I can't do it."

"Yes you can," Mark replies reassuringly.

"No. I can't. Not this time. *I can't.*"

"Mimi. . .think what you're saying. You'd never be able to live with the guilt if you weren't there when it happened. And think. . .after this, you can only start to feel better."

"Mark, that's awful!" I exclaim, surprised that he would even *think* such a thing.

"You're right," he apologizes, " You're right. I'm sorry. I guess. . .maybe I need to convince myself to go in there. Look, we'll do it together, okay?"

I nod and take a deep breath.

"Come on, Mark. We're wasting time."

Time we don't have, I add silently.

Roger's lying on his back with his eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. The sunlight coming in the window casts a golden glow across his face. I catch my breath at the image of Roger as an angel. I'm surprised to see that he's alone.

"Where is everyone?" Mark asks, before I can say anything.

"Not coming."

Roger's voice sounds tired. Broken. Weak.

I hardly recognize it.

I climb up on the bed beside him and take his hand.

"What do you mean, 'not coming'?" Mark asks, sitting down on the opposite side of the bed and laying a hand on Roger's shoulder.

"Not coming," Roger repeats, "You're the only ones who know."

"God, Roger," I whisper, "Why?"

He shakes his head against the pillow.

"Can't. . .handle it. . .sympathy. . ."

"Why, Roger?" I plead, "Why won't you let them be with you?"

"I can't stand them feeling sorry for me. I don't. . .want to hurt them. Please, Mimi. I don't want to fight. . .not. . .now.. . ."

"All right. . .you're sure there's nothing I can do?"

"Just talk to me. . .let me hold you. . ."

"Anything." I crawl under the covers next to him and wrap my arms around his waist, fighting tears. I can tell it takes a tremendous amount of his energy to roll onto his side, but he doesn't complain, just buries his face in my shoulder, running his fingers through my hair.

"How do you feel?" I ask, unable to bear it any longer.

"Tired," he murmurs, "Oh, God, so tired."

I tighten my arms around his waist and kiss his temple.

"I'm scared, Mimi. . ." he whispers.

And that's all it takes. Suddenly, the helplessness starts to fade, and the in control part of me comes back to the surface.

"It'll be okay," I whisper, wishing I believe myself.

"No, no it won't," Roger insists, "You don't know that."

"And *you* don't know that it won't be," I argue.

"And there you go again," Mark says, making me jump. I'd almost forgotten he was here.

"What?"

You two. Fighting. Again."

I sigh.

"You're right. I'm sorry, Rog. I just—"

"Forget it."

"Okay."

"Promise. . .you'll be okay without me?" Roger asks softly.

"Yes." I promise, my entire body screaming in protest. I want to shout at him.

_No, I won't be okay. When you go, my heart will go with you. Please, please stay. I'm nothing without you._

But I don't. Instead, I swallow the tears and dig my fingernails into my palms against the pain again.

"I love you, Roger," I whisper softly. "Whatever happens, don't you ever forget that."

"Love you too." He answers, "And Mark . . .I don't know. . .what the hell I did to deserve a friend like you but. . .thanks. . ."

He's fighting to keep his eyes open now.

I rub his back gently.

"Just rest, babe, just rest."

I burry my face in his shoulder, trying to memorize the sound and feel and smell of him, to freeze this instant in my mind forever. His breathing grows slower and shallower as the moment pass, finally stopping altogether.

I know in my heart it's over.

Finally, I manage to tear myself away and sit up. Mark looks at me questioningly.

I nod and start to cry. Mark comes over and wraps his arms around me, and I realize that he's crying too.

The room spins around me, little black spots dancing at the edges of my vision. My entire body aches with an overwhelming, all consuming pain. I'm broken inside, and no one can make me better.

"Oh, God, Mark," I sob, "Oh, God, he's gone. He's gone."

Mark pulls away just enough so that he can look me in the eye.

"He's okay now," Mark says softly, tears streaming down his pale cheeks, "He's with Angel now. I know it."

~~~**~~~

Review? Don't hate me, please. . .


	9. Epilogue

Author's Note: I just wanna say thanks to all my readers and reviewers. I love you all. I just want to say that in my first two stories, I based Mimi's character off of the actresses I've seen do the role. This one is mine. Hopefully someday I'll get a chance to do it on the stage.

Much love,

Michelle

Epilogue

~~~**~~~

"Roger was a fighter. All the time that I knew him, he had more bad luck than any human being should ever have to cope with. And he never gave up. Complained, oh sure. Said he couldn't do it, every time. Needed help getting out of bed some mornings. Some people will tell you that makes a man a coward. But I say Roger was a fighter. After all, what's harder than admitting you need help?"

Collins sits back, crossing his arms over his chest.

The loft is lit by a single candle sitting in the middle of the living room floor. Everyone is gathered around it in the darkness. The funeral Roger's parents gave him was this morning, but the service was so utterly artificial and unfitting, we all agreed to come back to the loft and hold a private service of our own. It feels strange, seeing everyone again. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed them. How much I *will* miss them.

Maureen stands up next, clasping her hands in front of her as if she's about to perform.

"Well, I would agree with Collins. Roger certainly was a fighter, though I'm not sure that that should always be considered a *good* quality. My earliest memories of him are of Roger and Mark arguing, arguing, arguing, day and night. Roger always had an opinion, and wouldn't rest until he'd converted everyone in the room to his point of view. He was like a brother to me, in a way. At least, we annoyed the hell out of one another often enough to have been siblings." Maureen pauses for a moment, looking around the room at everyone. "What more is there to say? I'm gonna miss him."

Maureen wipes at her eyes and sits back down, motioning to Joanne that it's her turn. Joanne stands up, and there's an awkward silence. When she finally speaks, it's quickly, precisely. The voice Joanne uses when she's upset.

"I didn't know Roger very well. Only on and off for a little over a year. I know he had an artist's soul, and I admire him for that. There's no greater gift, or curse, for that matter, than the ability to feel all the little nuances of life deeply, in one's heart. I guess my deepest regret is that I'll never truly know who Roger was."

Joanne sits down, and Mark looks at me questioningly. I shake my head, motioning for him to go first. Mark gets to his feet and begins pacing around the inside of the circle, taking in expressions and emotions as he passes each one of us. He pauses for a long moment before starting to speak.

"Roger was more like family to me than any of my blood relatives. And I know. . .that it seems like I let him use me and gave more than I got. And maybe that's true. But here's what I know. Roger gave me everything he was capable of giving. And that's what counts. Not the quantity, or even the quality, but the intention. You can't expect more of someone than what they're capable of.

I'll never forget the day we met. I was the new kid in the big city high school, fresh out of nine years of home schooling. I wasn't ready for it. The hatred, the prejudice-it blew me away. And then I met Roger. He was the only one who spoke to me my whole first year there. And when I asked him why, all he would say was that I was different. And he liked people who pushed the envelope. He never told me to give up, never put me down. Roger accepted and liked me for who I was. And that's the greatest gift I've ever been given."

Mark sits down, and I can feel all eyes in the room focus on me. I can practically taste their concern. I get to my feet and try to think of where to begin. I can't believe I'm actually doing this, and yet there's a part of me that always knew I could. I feel strangely composed. Peaceful.

"I guess. . .All my life I've been attracted to suffering. In some ways I brought it on myself. I went in search of love and acceptance in the wrong places, and lost what I already had. That's pretty much been the story of my life. I get a little of a good thing, and go in search of more—until I lose what I've already got.

The night I met Roger, I somehow sensed that he needed love as much as I did. Maybe I was right. I'll never know. Regardless—I can honestly say that he was the only man I truly loved and the only one who truly loved me." I pause as memories come flooding back to me. The candlelit loft looks exactly as it did the night I first laid eyes on Roger.

"Roger was, in every sense of the name, a tortured soul. He felt everything so deeply it became like—he was carrying the pain of the world in his heart. I can only hope that that's over for him now. That he's at peace."

I start to sit down again, then change my mind and return to the middle of the circle.

"I wasn't planning on sharing this. But I'm leaving in the morning." A surprised rustle moves through the room as everyone starts to intervene. I put up a hand for silence.

"Don't tell me that I'm still welcome here. I know that. And in some ways, I'd like to stay. But as long as I'm here, I'll be living in a memory. In the past. I need to move on. It's time for a fresh start. Please don't try to talk me out of it, because I'm not going to change my mind. Excuse me."

I turn and walk out of the living room and into the bedroom that Roger and I shared. Behind me, I hear the concerned voices of my friends, conferring about me in hushed tones. I tune them out. 

I turn and walk out of the living room and into the bedroom that Roger and I shard. Behind me, I hear the concerned voices of my friends, conferring about me in hushed tones. I tune them out.

I pull out my old duffel bag and begin stuffing things in it. Clothes. Jewelry. I don't have much.

I open a drawer and find the photo album again, sitting there as if it's been lying in wait for me all this time. I flip through it again, not bothering to fight the tears this time. It all hurts too much. I'm tired of hurting.

I start to throw the photo album away, then change my mind and put it in my bad instead.

"Good choice," Mark says from behind me, making me jump.

"Where'd you come from?"

"Nowhere."

It's then that I notice he's holding Roger's guitar case.

"He wanted you to have this," Mark explains, holding it out to me.

I take the case from him and gently lay it open on the floor. I pick up the guitar, running my fingers over the cool wood. It smells like Roger.

"Thanks," I whisper.

Mark nods.

"So you're really leaving?"

"Yeah. I figure it's time I actually did something with my life. I've been thinking about going back to school, getting a good job. I used to get good grades, you know, before I stopped caring."

Mark smiles at me.

"I'll miss you, you know. Come back sometime, okay? Keep in touch."

"I will." I promise.

"If there's ever anything you need. . ." Mark trails off.

I walk over to him and hug him, lightly kissing his cheek.

"Thanks."

I close my eyes and try to imagine my future. I don't know what it holds, but I know in my heart that I will love again—in beauty and in brokenness.

~~~**~~~

The End


End file.
